“I fear she’s gone, my lord,” said Robin, swallowing a sob. “She’s cleaned out her coffers, most o’ them, and left her little dog. There’s a note writ to you.”
Anthony, frowning, took the scrap of parchment which Robin tendered him. He examined the sprawling block letters. They said:
“Milord—I can not wed Edwin Ratclif Pardon forgette me—Celia. Robbin muste care for Tagle.”
Anthony read the note twice, then passed it to his wife.
“What i’ the name o’
Jesu
does this mean?” Magdalen read the note with stupefaction. “The lass is mad,” she said. “Her wits’re addled. What a bother! Depend on’t, ’tis some coy trick. She wants ye to find her, Master Ratcliffe.” She handed the note to Edwin.
Edwin read it while a painful flush covered his young face. He could not speak. The scrap of parchment trembled in his hand.
“The little minx,” said Anthony, almost inclined to laugh. He thought of the Fool’s Dance on Twelfth Night—the way she had diddled him, and the moment of fierce desire she had roused in him. The remembrance sent heat to his loins even now. “I’ll find your bride for you, Edwin,” he said chuckling, “if ye’ve not the guts for hunting.”
Magdalen gave her lord a long speculative stare. Since she had grown so swollen and unwieldy, Anthony had made several unexplained absences from their bed. Last night he had vanished for two hours, murmuring about belly gripes and the latrine. Like a wise and realistic wife she had not questioned, though she had kept a sharp eye on a particularly toothsome dairymaid. The stab of a brand-new suspicion brought immediate collapse of her affection for Celia. “Master Ratcliffe can seek his br-ride himsel’,” she said coldly.
Her russet eyes glinted at Anthony in such a way that he said hastily, “No doubt. To be sure, he must.” He resented Magdalen’s obvious suspicion, and felt injured since it had no basis in regard to Celia. There
was,
however, the gateward’s daughter . . .
“I’ll search for her . . .” said Edwin in a cold tone. “I can not understand . . . she seemed to love me, though I was never sure.”
“Coom, coom—” said Magdalen briskly, “ye mauna be chicken-hearted. Ye’ll find the naughty lass. An’ lucky she be to’ve won ye! Quick! She’ll not’ve gan far i’ the rain.”
Edwin bowed and went off with dragging feet. Beneath his crushing humiliation was a certainty. Celia was gone from his life as suddenly as she had entered it seven months ago. Like the rockets which had flared across the sky at the Queen’s coronation. Brilliance, then nothing but a charred stick left in the hand. His infatuation extinguished itself almost as completely with the thought of his mother’s warnings, and of the sweet doleful face of little Anne Weston whom he had so callously jilted.
Edwin mounted his horse outside the lodge. He debated a moment—Celia might have fled in any direction, there was no guessing. He had never been sure of her inward thoughts. He slapped the reins, pricked his horse and directed it towards the Petworth Road and his own manor.
In Cowdray’s privy chamber the Montagus looked at each other. Anthony responded to his wife’s sardonic questioning gaze with an exasperated shrug, then he smiled and put his hand gently on her freckled arm. “I’ve naught to do with Celia’s whimsies, my dear, I swear it by God’s precious blood.”
Magdalen’s eyes softened, she leaned over and kissed his cheek. “Then why has she fled—if indeed she has?”
“Whyfore does the wind blow north today, and south tomorrow? We’ve done our best by her, and ’tis not the first time the girl has caused me embarrassment.” He started at a sudden thought. Stephen had left this morning, after spending an hour efficiently helping the secretary with some of Anthony’s old papers. The monk had been composed and urbane; he had even said that he might reconsider acceptance of Anthony’s invitation to Spain, that he wished to leave early to consult with Abbot Feckenham again. Nay, Anthony thought, there could be no connection between Stephen and Celia now. A pox on Celia! He reverted to the more interesting subject of little Anthony’s betrothal.
As for Magdalen, since she knew nothing of any long past connections she was spared any such disquietude at all.
O
N LAMMAS DAY,
August 1, Celia trudged into the village of Ightham in Kent. She had spent nearly four months in flight from Cowdray, and their passage was blurred. She had existed in limbo since the drastic action she had taken after Master Julian had refused any help.
On setting out from Cowdray, she headed instinctively towards London, and got to Surrey before her shillings were gone. Then she slept in a field with Juno, and was arrested by an angry bailiff. “Trespassing, vagrancy, stealing pasturage.” They threatened her with the pillory, but released her in return for Juno—an obviously valuable mare. Celia did not protest, she had no means of feeding Juno. She kissed the horse farewell on its soft muzzle, and walked through Southwark, never pausing to glance towards the priory. She wandered to the only tavern she remembered, the King’s Head on Fenchurch Street, because it was the one Emma Allen had invited them to on the night of Queen Mary’s procession.
She applied for work, and was hired. She returned to her girlhood duties—drawing ale, serving customers—and endured, without hope or plan. She was often awakened by a clutch of panic in her chest, and in the morning she was given to nausea which made her retch. She dully knew the reason for her discomforts, but it seemed unreal. By noon she had forgotten, and listlessly performed her chores. Her routine had continued until the last Saturday in July, three days before her arrival in Ightham.
The King’s Head was jammed with riotous tipplers. Celia incurred first the lust, and then the fury of an alderman who grabbed her as she came up from the cellars with a flask of malmsey. He kissed her, and his hot bearded mouth and foul breath roused such a rage of disgust that she scratched his face and swung the flask upwards into his crotch. The alderman was momentarily felled. When he regained his feet his face was bleeding from four savage nail wounds, and he went straight to the landlord, complaining violently of Celia. The alderman was influential, and also the tavern’s best customer. He brought his friends to the inn and nightly spent many crowns there. He now threatened to take his coterie elsewhere, and the landlord coldly dismissed Celia. There were more complaisant tavern wenches to be hired, and this one, though she did her duties, was not popular with the other servants. She was too pretty, too fine of speech, too aloof. Also, there was some mystery about her. Mysteries were dangerous.
Celia accepted her dismissal in silence. She had earned a few pence besides her keep, and as though the alderman’s attack were the key, overwhelming desire rushed through an opened door. She packed her few possessions in a cloth bundle, and set out for Kent.
The village of Ightham swarmed with visitors. It was Lammas quarter day, when rents were due. Farmers, cottagers and shepherds were clustered before the George and Dragon.
The neighborhood rustics munched on white, Lammas Day loaves. A troupe of tumblers was performing on the village green. Warm August sun drew luscious scents from the barrows of cherries and apricots set out for sale.
Nobody noticed Celia, who was dressed in the simple costume she had adapted from Ursula’s clothes and her own before she left Cowdray. She wore a laced bodice, cut-off skirts, a kerchief on her head. Her bare feet were dusty and not yet toughened. She had discarded her leather shoes, to be saved for some occasion she could not yet imagine. They were in her pack. Around her neck she wore a tiny pouch which contained her wedding ring. She went into the George amongst the lowlier customers, and asked for ale and a bit of bread. The barmaid said, “Take wot ye like, chuck—a ha’penny fur the ale, but the Lammas bread’s free. They allus send loaves from the Mote.”
“Ah-h,” said Celia, “you mean from the Allens at Ightham Mote?”
The barmaid nodded. “Sir Christopher keeps up the old ways, I’ll say that fur ’em, though there’s rumors they don’t conform to our new Queen Bess. Wot be ye a-doin’ i’ these parts? Come for the hop pickin’?”
Celia was grateful to find simple friendliness—so unlike London. She smiled at the apple-cheeked Kentish maid, and her smile, long unused, felt rusty, but the dimple appeared next her mouth. The barmaid stared. “Why, chuck,” she said, “ye’d be fair as a blossom was ye not so thin. H’ant ye some brave lad to care fur ’ee? Ye don’t look a worker.”
“No lad,” said Celia, “and I
am
a worker. I’ll pick hops if I must, but I’d like something steady. Any posts you know of around here?”
“I’ll think on’t,” said the barmaid. “Me name’s Nancy. Wait i’ the kitchen whilst I carry the trays outdoors. Folk be clamoring.” She went out to the garden where trestle tables were set to accommodate the holiday-makers.
Celia crouched on a stool by the hearth. She drank her ale and ate a loaf of the fine white Lammas bread. These relieved the dizzy fatigue. She found a clout and dipped it in the kettle, then washed a cut on her sore foot. She waited.
Nancy did not forget her, and came back after a short while. “I’ve heard o’ somep’n,” she said. “There was stableboys at one table, they come from the Mote. Maught be a post
there
—scullery maid. M’lady Allen ’as just thrown out the last one, give her a sound bearing, too. Found she’d a big belly and couldn’t name the father. Very strict is m’lady, harsh they say, when she’s in her cups which be often.”
Celia held herself very still. “Is’t a large household at the Mote?” she asked. “Is’t heavy work?”
“As to that I’m not sartain,” said Nancy.
“I mean . . .” Celia said carefully, “are there many to wait on? Grown children . . . the steward . . . a chaplain, for instance?”
“Of childern, only the heir, little Charles—the steward’s a wee rabbit of a man, Will Larkin, he’d no be hard on ye, and aye—’tis said they’ve a new chaplain ’oo tutors Master Charles, but we’ve not seen him in the village.”
“I’d like to get the job,” said Celia. “Good Nancy, how shall I apply?”
“Why, ’tis easy.” Nancy gave a happy grin. “Master Larkin’s out there now on the green, watching the tumblers. I saw him. He’ll soon be here for his pot. Ye can arsk him then.”
“I’ve no references,” said Celia, and to Nancy’s expression of startled dismay, she gave a vague lot of reasons. She came from Sussex, but had not there been a servant; she had been married and widowed in Lincolnshire. The King’s Head episode she touched on lightly.
“Aye,” said Nancy nodding. “Barmaid’s first lesson is keep temper, ye don’ have to go a-bangin’ at their cods!” She exploded into hearty laughter. “I’ve wanted to gi’e one or two the knee m’self, but ’twon’t do. Look now, chuck—what’s your name, by the bye?”
“Cissy . . .” said Celia after a moment. “Cissy Boone.”
“Well, Cissy, ye speak ladylike, I b’lieve—unless’n it’s Sussex speech. Ye can write maybe? Write ye’re own reference.”
“I must try,” said Celia slowly.
“Pen and ink i’ the parlor,” said Nancy. “I mun get on wi’ the work.”
Celia went to the empty parlor and tried. She finally achieved the best note she could:
Cissy Boone is a trusty servente. Lyved
fore year with me in Lines I commende hir. Ladye Hutchinson.
Nancy, who had not even learned the alphabet, was delighted with this effort when Celia read it to her.
The rest was simple. Steward Larkin was no scholar himself, and the note impressed him. So did Celia whom he saw through a blur of cataracts. He was also quite deaf, and did not notice the manner of speech which puzzled Nancy. Lady Allen had ordered him to hire a scullery maid, on trial, and a mason and a chimney sweep, the last sweep having died most foully of a great sore on his privy parts. After engaging Celia, Larkin acquired the other two servants during the Lammas celebrations and herded them all into his cart.
The distance between Ightham Village and the Mote was about two miles and took the sluggish oxen an hour to cover, but Celia was so relieved to be off her bruised feet, and now so nervous about her decision, that she wished the time far longer.
The road ran through hopfields, nearly ready for picking, between oast houses and lush orchards. There were some gleaners in the hay fields despite the holiday, for heavy purple cloud banks to the east signaled rain. The cart rumbled downhill and came suddenly on the Mote snugly nestled in a hollow.
To Celia, after Cowdray, Ightham Mote seemed small and unimpressive. A typical old-fashioned fortified manor house, of which she had seen dozens. The encircling moat was also evidence of an earlier age. She looked again, and suddenly the Mote seemed not old-fashioned but sinister, like a beast crouching in its lair. Celia shifted her gaze to the range of windows facing her and saw a woman’s face glimmering from a corner of the upper story—a white face, subtly luminous.
“Who’s
that?
” Celia said involuntarily. “She looks frenzied.”
The steward turned and said, “Eh . . .? What say, m’dear?”
“That!” cried Celia, pointing. “That woman, she’s flapping something out of the window—something like swaddling bands!”
“Oh,
her,
” said the steward. “That’ll be Isabel. She ‘walks’ sometimes. Around dusk. I can’t see her. They say she mourns a babe was killed i’ those nurseries, back when the deHauts lived here, mebbe two hunnerd year agone.”
Celia said, “
Jesu
. . .” in a long shocked tone. She looked again, but the face had disappeared.
“Lot o’ ghosts at Ightham,” said the steward cheerfully. “Only thing I don’t like m’self is the ‘cold room.’” He pointed to the chamber in the entrance tower above the portal. “I go in there and find m’self shivering and shaking in a trice.”
“What happened there?” said Celia, then had to repeat the question louder.
“Damme if I know,” said the steward. “Murder, no doubt. These old places’ve seen a lot o’ murders. Don’t do to dwell on ’em.”
He gave the ox-herd an order and the cart lumbered to the cluster of buildings—stables, brewery, dairy and forge—across the lawn from the manor. Here they all scrambled down. Larkin consigned the mason and sweep to the blacksmith, but knew that he must present the new scullery maid to Lady Allen herself. She was very particular about the house servants.